The bandits struggled to free themselves from the rope that lashed them to the tree as a small fire began to smolder at their feet. The first bandit noticed the smoke and flames and tried to stamp the fire out, but it was just out of his reach. Silhouetted in the setting sun a short distance away, a giant hairy man on a great black horse watched them intently.
From behind the bandits they heard the screen door from the pickle factory squeak open and then snap closed. Slow, careful footsteps crunched the dry grass as someone drew closer to them. The bandits saw the giant figure’s head jerk towards the sound of the door and then follow the footsteps as they methodically drew closer to the bandits.
“Just who do you think you are,” Grandma’s voice crackled harshly, “interrupting a meeting of the Merri Mix?”
The Merri Mix was a ladies-only social club that had been around as long as Broomfield itself. Their meetings often featured seasonally-appropriate costumes and food, as well as lively discussions of the issues of the day. One of their favorite activities was to stage mock weddings, where the ladies dressed up as the bride, the groom, and the wedding party. Nearly every woman in town was a member.
But no one knew that the Merri Mix was also capable of dispensing their own brand of frontier justice whenever the situation called for it. And this particular situation was screaming for it.
Grandma carried a galvanized bucket full of pickle juice. The acrid vinegar smell cut through the scent rising up from the growing fire just out of reach of the bandits’ feet. She carefully set the pail down on the dry grass next to the bandits' kerosene can. Grandma carefully took in the situation, then turned and nodded at the giant hairy man on the horse. He nodded back to Grandma, snapped the reins, and was off into the sunset like lightning.
“I don’t recognize your faces,” Grandma said to the bandits tied to the tree. “You boys aren’t from around here, are you?”
“Untie us, you old biddy!” the first bandit snarled. “What was that guy? He could have killed us!” The small fire began to grow, stoked by the gentle breeze from the east.
“Just what are the two of you doing hanging around the grain silos with so much kerosene?” Grandma asked, ignoring the first bandit’s insults.
“I said untie us you old maid!” the first bandit yelled again.
Grandma was unfazed. She looked at the bandits, and then looked over to the grain silos by the railroad tracks. In an instant she had sussed out their plan.
“You two don’t look smart enough to have cooked up an idea like this on your own,” Grandma said, startling both men with her directness. “So who sent you?”
Grandma reached down and picked up a large stick nearly a yard long. One end of the stick was already burning from being inside the growing fire ring started from the bandit’s match.
“We ain’t answering no questions! What’s a hag like you gonna do to us?” the first bandit laughed.
“Yeah!” the second bandit added just because he felt he needed to add something at this point.
With a single move, Grandma thrust the burning branch at the first bandit’s face and stopped it less than an inch from his nose. The bandit went cross-eyed for a second as he watched the flames and felt the heat on his eyebrows.
“That may be true,” Grandma said menacingly. “I’m just an old lady. What can I possibly do to hurt a couple strapping young lads like yourselves?” With this Grandma thrust the burning stick into the ribcage of the first bandit. He winced from the stab, but stifled his groan. He stared back at her defiantly as his flannel shirt blackened from the burning embers.
At this point, the second bandit decided to keep quiet. And in return, Grandma continued to ignore him.
She leaned in close the first bandit’s face, twisting the burning stick into his ribcage.
“You’ll tell me where you’re from and who sent you to burn down our grain silos, or I’ll make you wish you never heard of Broomfield, Colorado,” Grandma said in calm, menacing tones.
“Go fish!” the first bandit said and spat on the ground between them. His moment of defiance was ruined when a faint cry of fear escaped the second bandit’s mouth. Grandma’s eyes never left the first bandit, but she let a broad smile slowly fill her face as she glared him in the eyes.
Grandma stepped back, dropped the burning stick onto the ground in front of the bandits, and spread her hands in a gesture of defeat.
“Well, I guess you’re right,” she said with resignation. “What’s an old woman to do when faced with the might of two young lads like yourselves? I’ll just grab my pickle juice and head back to the Merri Mix meeting. June Hansen is giving a lively lecture about the rules and regulations for displaying the American flag.”
With this she turned, picked up the bandits’ kerosene can instead of her bucket of pickle juice, and began to walk away.
“Well, would you look at that?” Grandma said and she walked back to the first bandit. “Maybe I am getting dotty in my old age. I meant to pick up my bucket of pickle juice, but I grabbed your kerosene can by mistake.”
Grandma lifted the kerosene can up by the handle to eye level between her and the first bandit.
“Silly me. A fine lot of good this would have done me over in the pickle factory, huh?” she said, still holding the can between their faces. “Imagine me, accidentally pouring kerosene all over our latest batch of pickles.”
With this, Grandma tilted the bottom of the can with her free hand and spilled a splash of kerosene out of the spout on to the ground.
“Oops!” she said, her eyes grew wide as saucers. Then she tilted the bottom of the can again, pouring a steady stream of kerosene on the ground. Very carefully she drew a line of kerosene through the dry grass to the feet of both bandits. When she guided the stream over their boots, they stamped and hollered that she was crazy. But this only served to splash the kerosene up on to the legs of their pants.
She ended the stream by carefully pouring a pool of kerosene into a divot on the ground about a foot downwind from grassfire that had been started by the bandit’s match. Each gentle gust of wind pushed the fire an inch or so closer to the kerosene fuse.
“Now, one more time. Who sent you? And where did you come from?”
“We’re from Fort Collins!” The second bandit cried out. “Don’t burn us! Please, lady, don’t burn us!”
“And who sent you to burn down the grain silos?” Grandmas voice was as calm as ever. From the tone of her voice, you might have thought she was asking June Hansen a question about the regulations for displaying the American flag after dark.
“I don’t know!” the second bandit yelled. “Tell, her, Amos! Tell her or we’re gonna burn!”
“Yes, tell me, Amos,” Grandma said mockingly. A small gust of wind picked up and pushed the fire closer to the pool of kerosene.
“Peabody,” Amos, the first bandit, said. “Mr. R. H. Peabody of the Amalgamated Mining Trust.”
“I’ve heard of Mr. R. H. Peabody of the Amalgamated Mining Trust,” Grandma repeated. “He’s a well respected person around these parts. He’s even got his own private Pullman car on the railroads. Why would Mr. Peabody get mixed up with a couple of hoodlums like yourselves?”
“He wants your land for the minerals underneath,” the first bandit’s tongue freed up as the flames crept closer to the pool of kerosene connected to his legs. “He figures he can buy it cheaper if you can’t make any money from farming the dirt on top. So he paid us to take care of the grain silos so you can’t sell your grain.”
“Thank you, Amos,” Grandma said in her most grandmotherly voice. “And you tell Mr. R. H. Peabody of the Amalgamated Mining Trust that he can look elsewhere. Broomfield is protected.”
“Protected?” Amos laughed. “By a bunch of old biddies and their pickle juice?”
“For starters,” Grandma responded. And she looked to the west in the direction where the Broomquatch had ridden.
Grandma grabbed the pail of pickle juice and set it down on the path of the kerosene in front of the bandits.
“In about two minutes a bunch of men will be here,” Grandma continued. “You best tell them the same story of Mr. Peabody that you told me. You tell them all about the man on the horse, but you don’t tell them about me or the Merri Mix club. You understand?”
“Uh-huh,” the second bandit said nervously. “Put that fire out now, lady. It’s getting awfully close to the kerosene”
“Oh, and one more thing,” Grandma added. “My sister lives in Fort Collins. So I’m going to ask her to keep an eye on you and let me know if you get up to any more funny business.”
Grandma picked up the bucket of pickle juice.
“I don’t normally like to talk to my sister,” Grandma went on. “I try to avoid her on account of she’s so mean.” And with that, Grandma splashed the stinky pickle juice all over the feet and legs of the bandits, diluting the kerosene with enough water and vinegar to keep them from catching fire.
As Grandma walked back to the Merri Mix meeting at the pickle factory, she gave a sharp whistle, startling the two horses tied up in front of the Crescent Grange. The horses bristled with sharp whinneys and stomps until a bunch of men in funny masks and two boys came out of a cellar door on the side of the Crescent Grange to see what the commotion was about. As soon as they calmed the horses, one of the boys noticed the smoldering fire and the two bandits tied to a tree behind the pickle factory. The group ran straight over to investigate.
Grandma returned to her seat at the Merri Mix meeting in the back of the pickle factory where she learned from June Hansen that the American flag should never, under any circumstances, be allowed to touch the ground.
# # #
That evening a Pullman car sat attached to a Denver-bound Union Pacific train in the railyard near Jefferson and Linden streets in Fort Collins, Colorado. The whistle sounds meant that their departure was imminent.
Inside the private Pullman car a Mr. R. H. Peabody of the Amalgamated Mining Trust smoked a cigar and sipped at some brandy.
“When do we depart, James?” Mr. Peabody asked his manservant. “It smells like something died outside in the railyard. Please close all the windows.”
“The windows are closed, sir,” James replied.
“Then you tell that conductor to step on it. I want to get to Denver at a decent time.”
“Yes, sir,” James responded. He exited toward the passenger cars to locate the conductor.
Sitting outside on the roof of the private Pullman car, a certain nine-foot-tall smelly character took a deep drag from his Kool menthol cigarette. The glow of the cigarette illuminated a circle that he’d been carving into the paint on the roof of the car directly above where Mr. R. H. Peabody of the Amalgamated Mining Trust was enjoying his cigar and brandy.
Using a bent Coors Banquet Beer cap as a chisel, the creature carved a perfect circle through the maroon paint and deep into the wood of the roof of the car. Once the circle was finished, he chiseled a perfect “X” in the middle of it, directly on top of Mr. Peabody’s favorite after-dinner chair.
The train whistle sounded, and the steam engine chugged to life, gently rocking the cars into motion for their journey south to Denver’s Union Station. As the Pullman car moved closer to a circle of light thrown by a streetlamp, the Broomsquatch silently launched himself from the roof of the railcar and into some scrub bushes at the base of a tree behind some houses in the neighborhood.
Inside one of the homes, a young girl about seven years old yelled to her mother, “Did you see that? A man just jumped off the top of that railcar. I just saw it!”
“Oh, you hush with your wild stories now, Sarah,” her mother said quickly as she tucked her back into bed. “There’s no one out there. And please don’t go on about this tale or you’ll make me late for my women’s club meeting!”